


a last note from someone you once loved

by ilyasomina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, F/M, M/M, No Character Death, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25155898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyasomina/pseuds/ilyasomina
Summary: Dean picks up and flips one of the cards over in his hand, lips pressed into a thin line as he takes in Castiel's name scrawled on the back. "When did you get this?" He murmurs, and Meg looks at him in a way that says,Don’t ask stupid questions."Probably the same time you received her name," Castiel answers around the lip of his wine glass. "And I received yours."Their faces remain impassive, but unadulterated panic flashes in their eyes. Dean takes a moment to turn the card over again, processing the fact they had all been assigned to kill each other."Well," He says, finally. "This is a bit of a problem, isn't it?"
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Meg Masters, Castiel/Meg Masters/Dean Winchester, Meg Masters/Dean Winchester
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	1. your worth lies in the blade at your throat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shardmind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shardmind/gifts).



> emily introducing me to the concept of destiel + meg immediately after i finished binge watching all of hannibal AND killing eve was definitely purposeful on her part. she knew i would end up writing something like this.

Dean gets the card at exactly eight in the morning on a Tuesday, which in and of itself, is strange. His cards usually arrive on Fridays or Sundays, and never before his previous card is finished first. 

It had been slipped under his hotel room door, and he only notices when it is because he’d been in passing to the bathroom. He stands there frowning at it for a minute, as though if he stared hard enough it would magically disappear.

Meg slides past him, glancing at the card as well as she moves into the bathroom. She unhooks her bra as she does, draping the lacy black thing over Dean’s shoulder in passing. 

“For you or me?” She asks through the wall, the sound of the shower starting up echoing against the walls.

Dean keeps frowning, and takes the few steps forward to pick it up. It’s made of thick paper, a creamy color with gold trim and a scripted _“Thank you!”_ stamped on the front. He flips it over, and his stomach turns to knots as he takes in the name.

“For me,” Dean finally replies, voice quiet. He pulls her bra off his shoulder, rubbing the still-warm fabric between his fingers. After a few moments, he puts the bra on the bed and slides the card into his own bag before joining her in the shower.

Castiel finds him wrist deep in blood, kneeling over his latest card as he works at setting the victim’s hair perfectly into place. Castiel stands there on the balcony, suitcase in hand, dressed in all black and hiding so perfectly in the dark that Dean actually jolts in shock when he finally realizes he’s standing there.

He motions that it’s unlocked, and Castiel quietly slides open the balcony door. The wind whistles behind him, the moonlight hitting him from behind and casting his face in shadows. He takes in Dean kneeling beside the bodies, the presentation he’s laid out with them, the flowers and clothes and almost immaculate details.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says. “Your work is beautiful, as always.” 

“You say the sweetest things, Cas,” Dean bats his eyelashes at the man, ignoring the swell of pride at his words. “What are you doin’ in this part of town?”

“My card was just down the street, actually,” Castiel circles the bodies, blue eyes almost glowing in the dark as he takes it all in. “I saw you on the sidewalk as I was finishing up.”

“Yeah? Wanted to watch me work?”

Castiel presses into his personal space, taking in the wild look in Dean’s eyes, and the way his hands shine a slick black with blood in the moonlight. “Like I said, your work is beautiful, Dean.”

Dean reaches up then to cradle Castiel’s face in his hands delicately. Castiel is unperturbed by the blood, instead meeting Dean’s gaze with his own sleepy, blown out one.

“You don’t have to sweet talk me to get in my pants, baby,” Dean whispers against the other man’s lips. Castiel shudders visibly, his free hand coming up to grip Dean’s elbow. He closes the space between them and kisses Dean gently, like they have all the time in the world.

“Perhaps,” Castiel murmurs between kisses, voice soft. “We should take this back to my hotel room. I wouldn’t want to contaminate your work.”

“Perhaps that’s best,” Dean replies in a lofty accent, grinning as he pulls away. “Just give me a few minutes?”

Castiel obliges, and after about ten minutes, Dean has meticulously finished his work, and they’re headed out the door hand in hand.

“What am I eating?” Meg asks one night, her mouth full. They’re all gathered in Meg’s apartment for dinner, a routine they try to uphold at least every other week. 

“Provençal stuffed squid,” Dean replies without opening his eyes from where he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, head tilted back against the cabinets. “It’s a French dish.”

“It’s fucking delicious, is what it is,” Meg says, swallowing loudly for effect.

A hand rests on his knee, and when Dean opens his eyes Castiel is leaning back in his chair, eyes on him. “Tired, Dean?”

Dean hums in response, threading his fingers through the other man’s and closing his eyes again. Castiel squeezes his hand, and after a while Dean feels himself slipping, vaguely aware of the clinking of silverware and the soft whispers of their voices lulling him to sleep.

He’s startled awake by the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, and hands on him. When he opens his eyes Meg is standing right there, pressing her weight against his thighs through the palms of her hands, squeezing the muscle through his jeans. Her face is close, close enough that he can see the smear of her lipstick on the corner of her mouth and the delicate wetness to her eyes.

He smiles lazily at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Dean,” She whispers. “I have to tell you something.” She glances back at Castiel, who’s still sitting in his seat at the table. He takes a long sip of his wine, nodding at her as if to say, _Go on._

“I got a new card,” She says, slowly. 

Dean doesn’t need her to elaborate. He looks at Castiel, who stares darkly back at him, before saying, “Show me.” 

All three of them move at once. Meg reaches into her back pocket and pulls out the folded card. At the table, Castiel reaches into his trench coat and pulls out one as well. Dean reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out his most recent card.

They lay them all out on the counter beside each other. Dean’s is a creamy white, Meg’s is a soft pink, and Castiel’s is a matte black. Each of them are trimmed in gold, each embossed with _Thank you!._ Dean flips them over one by one.

Dean’s reads, _Meg Masters (The Butcher)._

Meg’s reads, _Castiel Novak (The Ghost)._

Castiel’s reads, _Dean Winchester (The Artist)._

There is silence. Meg’s hand squeezes his thigh again, her fingers trembling ever so slightly, and he pulls her between his knees with an arm around her waist. Castiel pours himself another glass of wine.

Dean picks up and flips one of the cards over in his hand, lips pressed into a thin line as he takes in Castiel's name scrawled on the back. "When did you get this?" He murmurs, and Meg looks at him in a way that says, _Don’t ask stupid questions._

"Probably the same time you received her name," Castiel answers around the lip of his wine glass. "And I received yours."

Their faces remain impassive, but unadulterated panic flashes in their eyes. Dean takes a moment to turn the card over again, processing the fact they had all been assigned to kill each other.

"Well," He says, finally. "This is a bit of a problem, isn't it?"


	2. now check her face for the holiness you lack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Dean an embarrassingly long time to realize who exactly she is, and he can’t help the gasp he makes when he does, while the body lies still warm on the bed and she lovingly cleans her knives with a tissue from the nightstand.
> 
> She glances up at him at the sound, and he tries his best not to sound like a fan meeting their favorite singer as he says, “You’re Meg. The Butcher.”

The first time Dean meets The Butcher, it is entirely by accident. 

He’s freshly recruited, only on his third or fourth card, and he’s relishing in his new found power over his victims, and freedom to create his masterpieces. He’s learning, he knows, and he’s the newbie, so he has to be careful every step of the way for fear of being thrown out too early. He could always misstep and cause his higher ups to decide he is disposable, in which case he’d end up coming face to face with colleagues he’s only heard rumors about. He thinks, however, they like that he has a flair for the dramatic, has an almost obsessive attention to detail, because so far he’s only had high praise on his completed cards.

He meets her in an upscale hotel bar. He’s nursing a whiskey and mulling over his next card, and how he’s going to set it up, when she comes up and slides herself neatly into the stool beside him. She’s wearing this tight velvet bodysuit, slit down the chest to show off her cleavage, big tulle bows wrapped around her wrists and neck and waist. She flashes him a startlingly white smile, teeth sharp, before waving her hand in front of his face. Tucked between her middle and forefinger is the cream white card that had been in his back pocket just moments ago.

He swipes it from her, heart pounding suddenly. “What are you, stupid?” He snaps, ears going hot at his own mistake. He should’ve hidden it better. If some random girl at a bar could grab it, anyone could. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to touch things that aren’t yours?”

“Didn’t anyone teach you to hide your cards better?” She asks, motioning with her hand to get the bartender's attention, and Dean’s blood runs cold. He’s never met another assassin outside of scheduled meetings by the higher ups, and the fact she had so obviously pegged him as one as well meant she was highly skilled. Probably in the game much, much longer than he’s been.

He grumbles, “Whatever,” under his breath as she orders a gin and tonic, humming to herself happily as she watches the bartender start mixing it for her. She’s got full cheeks and big eyes and unruly hair that hangs loose over her shoulders, and all in all she’s very pretty. She catches Dean staring, because it’s not his night, and she smiles at him in a way that doesn’t meet her eyes.

“See something you like, handsome?” She asks, and Dean can feel his face flushing.

He means to say something equally as smooth, but what comes out is, “Are you following me?”

She arches one perfect brow at him, thanking the bartender as he places her drink in front of her. After taking a sip, she finally says, “Would you like me to follow you?”

Dean frowns at her. “Do you have your own card, or are you just here by coincidence?”

“It’s impolite to ask about a lady’s card,” She sniffs. She takes another long swig of her drink, licking her lips suggestively after. “But yes, I do. Wanna watch?”

Dean just stares at her for a moment, affronted at the suggestion. The longer he thinks about it, the more he realizes that, yes, he absolutely wants to watch.

There’s something to be said for how intimate it is to watch a woman gut open a corrupt politician while you sit just a few feet away, Dean thinks as he does just that. 

The politician’s hotel room is luxurious, with plush carpet and furniture, and it all splatters with his blood so nicely it almost reads like an art piece. Dean sits on one of the soft armchairs, legs crossed, watching intently as she does her work. She clearly has an affinity for knives, if the way she pulled three different ones from beneath the velvet of her bodysuit gave any indication, and the way she gutted the man like a trout she was making for dinner. It takes Dean an embarrassingly long time to realize who exactly she is, and he can’t help the gasp he makes when he does, while the body lies still warm on the bed and she lovingly cleans her knives with a tissue from the nightstand.

She glances up at him at the sound, and he tries his best not to sound like a fan meeting their favorite singer as he says, “You’re Meg. The Butcher.”

“Oh,” She laughs, the sound a little too loud considering the almost private setting of the room. “Yeah. I thought you knew.”

Dean shakes his head, getting to his feet to carefully pick his way around the bloodstains on the carpet until he can stand before her. She watches him do so with sharp eyes but doesn’t move to stop him when he reaches up to almost lovingly to tuck her hair behind her ears. There’s the smallest drop of blood on her cheekbone, and he wipes it away with his thumb, knowing he has a reverent look on his face.

“I’m Dean,” He says, and she laughs again.

“I know.”

They’re lying in bed together one night, Dean dozing with his head against her chest, the television casting blue light across the sheets from where it plays quietly in the background, when the newscaster mentions a murder that is not familiar in form to either of them.

Meg’s fingers pause where they’re scratching gently against Dean’s scalp, and Dean keeps his eyes closed but listens intently, the sound of the report amplified in the otherwise hushed and dark room. 

“-was considered a pillar of the community, was announced dead upon arrival to the hospital at eleven fourty six yesterday morning,” The voice is saying grimly. “Originally considered to be a fatal heart attack, new information has come into light when the coroner’s discovered lethal amounts of several well known inhalant poisons as well as trace amounts of localized drug overdoses. Police commissioner has yet to reveal details to the public, but has confirmed that the case has been opened as a probable murder.”

There’s a few seconds of stillness as they both absorb the information, the newscaster moving cheerily onto sports updates with barely a breath between. Eventually, Meg’s fingers begin moving through his hair again, and Dean mumbles against her skin, “Inhalants?”

“Gotta get pretty close to use inhalants,” Meg muses out loud. 

“A crime of passion,” Dean supplies, and he feels Meg shake her head.

“Passion’s my alley, doll. Inhalants aren’t easily obtained, especially multiple ones.”

Dean lifts his head at this, raising up onto his elbows to frown at her. “Huh.”

She meets his gaze with a twinkle in her eye, the smallest of smiles on her lips. “Must be a new one, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [this is the lovely outfit meg was wearing at the bar :-)](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/a8/ec/5c/a8ec5c6d9cd97fe3cf1a7d7e763074a2.jpg)


	3. feel the right as it shifts beneath his face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Ghost,” Dean repeats, and the man looks at Dean like he’s speaking a foreign language. Dean squints at him. “Dude, you don’t know your own name?”
> 
> “They’re calling me… The Ghost?” The man asks dubiously.
> 
> “Yeah. Because, you know… you’re like a ghost with the way you kill. In and out, clean and fast and untraceable. Like a ghost.”

Dean meets The Ghost for the first time by purposefully following his pattern. And by following his pattern, he means Meg gets the intel from a higher up on who The Ghost’s next victim is going to be, and she sends Dean after them like a lovesick puppy who’ll go where she points. Or, better yet, a bloodhound.

The victim is a middle aged woman with crows feet and bleach blonde hair. Dean tails her to the restaurant she attends with her husband, and he watches everyone they interact with carefully; the hostess who seats them, the busboy who fills their water, the waitress who brings their food, and even the husband's coworker who just so happens to be eating there as well. Dean sees no foul play, doesn’t think any of these people even know he’s been watching them for over six hours today- they were all so blissfully unaware. The Ghost wasn’t striking here. 

Dean trails behind them after dinner, as they walk downtown back to their apartment, the woman stumbling in her heels from too much red wine and the husband laughing as he helps her along. Dean is watching them and briefly wondering where and what Meg was doing at the moment, when something hits him in the back of the head-hard- and he blacks out almost instantly.

He comes to in the dark. He can’t see anything, only what seems to be the moonlight filtering just barely into the room- just enough he can make out the vague shape of furniture, but nothing else. He blinks a few times, sorting out the stiffness of the chair he was tied to and the throb of his head from being knocked out.

The floorboards creak in the corner of the room, and Dean snaps his head towards the noise. There’s an indiscernible shape that looks almost human standing there. Dean’s eyes adjust slowly, and his heart lurches as he finally makes out a pair of eyes gleaming in the dark. Watching him.

Dean knows almost instantly this is The Ghost. He also knows that the creak of the floorboard was intentional- The Ghost knew exactly what they were doing, and exactly how they wanted Dean to know they were there.

They stare at each other, perfectly still in the darkness. The darkness presses in on Dean’s eyes, and he can’t make anything else out other than the eyes. They’re blue, he thinks.

“It’s no fun if you just watch,” He says, finally, because he has no self-preservation whatsoever.

The Ghost doesn’t reply. Dean shifts, the scratchy rope on his wrists chafing his skin. He makes a face, knowing the other can’t see it, and continues, “Is this a kink thing? I’m not one to judge, but I’m pretty sure you need my consent before tying me up.”

“Why are you following me?” The Ghost asks, and Dean almost jolts at the sound. It’s definitely a man, his voice deep and gravelly, just the slightest hint of an accent to it. Dean immediately wants to hear it again.

“Following you? I was simply enjoying my evening, going for a stroll, when you-”

The Ghost moves with absolute silence. One minute he’s a vague outline in the corner, and a split second later he’s looming over Dean, the cold, sharp point of a needle pressed against Dean’s neck. Dean’s throat closes up at the feeling, his eyes struggling to adjust and take in whatever features he could gather of the face now inches from his own.

“Don’t lie to me,” The Ghost murmurs, his voice going quiet. “Who are you?”

“Okay, okay, God, you don’t have to inject me with ketamine or whatever,” Dean tries his best to pull his neck away from the needle as much as he can as he speaks. “I’m a friend, okay? A colleague, you could say.”

Dean can practically feel the doubt coming off the man in waves. “I have no colleagues.”

“I mean, we all have colleagues,” Dean says. “You’ve just never met yours before.”

The Ghost hesitates. He pulls the needle away, just a few centimeters, and tilts his head to the side in such an endearing way Dean would be trying to kiss him if he wasn’t currently tied to a chair. This close, and with Dean’s eyes adjusted, he can just make out parts of the man’s face, the shadows sloping along high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. The Ghost is… handsome, to say the least, and he’s got some brilliant blue eyes.

“Did… did they send you for me?” The Ghost asks, and it takes Dean a few seconds to understand what he’s really saying.

“No! God, no,” Dean laughs shortly. “Like I could kill you. You’re The Ghost.”

“The what?”

“The Ghost,” Dean repeats, and the man looks at Dean like he’s speaking a foreign language. Dean squints at him. “Dude, you don’t know your own name?”

“They’re calling me… The Ghost?” The man asks dubiously.

“Yeah. Because, you know… you’re like a ghost with the way you kill. In and out, clean and fast and untraceable. Like a ghost.”

“I think all assassins are supposed to be untraceable,” The Ghost says, and he sounds amused now.

Dean snorts. “You know what I mean. Anyway, it’s not all bad. They called me _The Artist_. Like I’m Picasso or some shit.”

The man suddenly jerks back, and Dean can see the way his eyes have widened considerably. “You’re the… you’re The Artist?”

They stare at each other. Dean isn’t sure if the man’s trying to pull a fast one on him, or if he’s genuinely heard of Dean before. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, slowly. “That’s me.”

The Ghost lowers his hand holding the needle, and gives Dean a look he can only describe as awestruck. “Your work is incredible.”

Dean’s heart skips a beat and thumps loudly in his chest. “That’s high praise coming from you,” He says lamely.

“I mean it,” The Ghost shifts, and without anymore preamble begins untying Dean from the chair. “I’m a fan of your work. That one scene you did that you set up to look like angels praying,” He pulls back to look Dean in the eye, expression reverent. “You’re truly befitting of the name The Artist.”

Dean feels the rope loosen, and he wiggles his hands out so he can bring them up to his chest, rubbing his chafed wrists. He swallows, loudly in the otherwise silent room, and meets The Ghost’s intense gaze.

“I’m Dean,” He breathes out, and The Ghost smiles, a surprisingly gentle look on his otherwise intimidating face.

“Castiel.”

**Author's Note:**

> there's about four parts to this series- this one, one about how dean and meg meet, one about how dean and castiel meet, and one that follows up this one! hopefully i finish them all soon. :-)


End file.
